Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The walk down the hall was longer than it looked from the entrance. Or maybe it was just me.
Brody's hand found the small of my back somewhere between the front desk and the corridor—not steering, not pushing.
Just there. The same way he was always just there, like it cost him nothing.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world to show up in a parking lot in Livingston because someone called and couldn't get out of their truck.
I didn't know how he did that. Showed up without making you feel like you owed him for it.
I was starting to think it wasn't a skill so much as just… him.
I stopped in front of the door that read J. Calvin and knocked.
A beat of silence. Then, from inside—
"Goddammit, Doris, I told ya I ain't comin' to bingo. You want a roll in the hay, you'll haveta find me after."
Behind me, Brody made a sound that was definitely a laugh converted at the last second into a cough.
The door swung open.
An old man looked out at me from under a pair of eyebrows that had apparently decided to keep growing long after the rest of him had stopped. His strong jaw had probably been stubborn since birth and had only gotten more so with time.
He looked at me for a long moment.
"You ain't Doris."
"No, sir," I said.
He slid his gaze to Brody, standing quietly behind my left shoulder, then back to me. His expression gave little away—except, maybe, a hint of recognition.
"But ya are 'bout sixteen years late, I reckon."
My eyes went wide. "You—I—"
"C'mon." He was already turning back into the room. "Bring the Lancaster boy with ya."
I turned to look at Brody.
Brody was pointing at his own chest, eyes wide as saucers.
John Calvin rolled his eyes, bobbed his head once like yes, you, obviously, keep up, and disappeared into his room.
We looked at each other.
Then we followed him in.
The room was small but well-kept. A bookshelf along one wall packed tight with paperbacks and a few framed photographs I wasn't ready to look at too closely yet.
A window with a view of the garden, afternoon light coming through at a low angle.
A small kitchen along the back wall with a coffee maker and a row of prescription bottles lined up neat as soldiers.
The kind of room a man made his own, no matter what he'd been given to work with.
He lowered himself into the recliner with the careful economy of someone who'd made peace with what his body could and couldn't do these days. Brody and I took the loveseat, close enough that our knees touched.
"So you, uh—" I cleared my throat. "You know who I am?"
He leveled me with a look. "I got eyes, don't I?"
"Well, yeah, but I was little and—"
"And ya look just like your mama."
His eyes misted over instantly. He sniffled once and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, quick and gruff, like he was annoyed at himself for it.
"I'm sorry." I made to stand. "I can go—"
"Ah, sit your ass down, girl." I sat. "I ain't sad. Had twenty-two years to grieve the loss of my girls." He sniffled again and waved a hand. "I'm just damn happy I get to have one of 'em back."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh," he mimicked, dry as dirt. Then his sharp eyes cut sideways to Brody, and something shifted in them—still sharp, but sharper now, with a particular edge that old men reserved for young ones they weren't yet sure about.
"Now tell me what the hell you're doing with this one.
Hank tells me he's been runnin' around town dippin' his wick in every available—"
"You know Hank?" Brody sat forward.
John rolled his eyes. "We old folk all know each other."
"Look, Hank's got it out for me 'cause—"
"I know, I know." John waved him off without ceremony. "You broke it off with that girl—what's her name—" He didn't wait for an answer. "Doesn't matter. Point is, from where I'm sittin'?" He looked between the two of us and gave one decisive nod. "You traded up."
The room went quiet.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Brody looked at me with an expression that said don't look at me, I didn't do anything.
John Calvin picked up the remote control from the arm of his recliner, supremely unbothered by both of us.
"You like Drew?"
Brody and I exchanged a look.
"Drew who?" I asked.
"Barrymore."
"Um—"
"Watch her every day." He pointed the remote at the television with the authority of a man who had not once in his life questioned his own taste. "Two o'clock. Same time as bingo." A dismissive sniff. "Barrymore beats bingo, hands down."
The television clicked on.
Brody leaned toward my ear. "Are we watching The Drew Barrymore Show with your grandfather?"
I took stock of John Calvin, eighty-something years old, settling into his recliner with the remote balanced on his knee and the volume going up two clicks too loud.
"Apparently," I said, and I settled back into the cushions in a room with the only two men in the whole damn world I'd sit still for.
An hour and change later, Doris showed up. John—Granddad, I supposed I could call him—all but kicked Brody and me out. Before he closed the door, though, he pulled me into a hug.
"I'm glad you're home, Vinny."
My eyes instantly welled. No one had called me that since my mom died.
"Me, too." I squeezed him tight—just hopefully not too tight because he felt entirely too brittle.
And I needed him to stick around for more than a little while.
"Maybe I can bust you outta this joint for a day here soon," I said, pulling away and looking up at him.
He may have been on this side of frail, but he was still a good head taller than me. "Take you out to the ranch."
"That'd be real nice." He gave a soft smile and looked over my shoulder toward Brody. "You take care of my girl, ya hear?"
"Yes, sir." Brody took a step toward us, placing his hand on my lower back.
"And keep your dick outta any other—"
"Alrighty, we're outta here!" I quickly cut off Granddad before this line of conversation went even a beat further.
With a final wave, Brody and I made our way back out to the parking lot.
It was bright and hot after the dim quiet of Granddad's room. I squinted against it and just… stood there for a second, keys in my hand, not going anywhere in particular.
Brody stopped beside me.
I could feel him looking at me.
"What's wrong with your face?"
I laughed. Couldn't help it. "Nothing."
"No, something's—" He leaned in, studying me with exaggerated concern. "Are you—are you smiling?"
"Shut up."
"Calvin Jennings." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Is that a genuine, unprompted, unironic smile?"
"I will revoke it immediately."
"Don't you dare." He caught my chin in his hand before I could school my expression back into anything resembling normal. His thumb traced my jaw and he looked at me for a moment, that green gaze doing the thing it always did where it just… stayed. "Suits you," he said quietly.
I rolled my eyes, but I didn't take the smile back.
He kissed me once, quick and warm, right there in the parking lot in Livingston with the July heat coming up off the asphalt and Doris presumably already angling for her roll in the hay somewhere back inside.
"You hungry?" he asked against my lips.
"Starving."
"Good." He took my keys out of my hand, walked me to his truck, and opened the door. "Get in."
"Where are we going?"
He was already heading for the driver's seat. "Somewhere that ain't Larkspur," he called back. "You can pick the music."
I got in.
I was still smiling.